Concrete Angel
by Jasper1863Hale
Summary: Succumbed to an existence that he can neither change nor escape from, Jasper must endure the harshest of relationships before finding his freedom in the cruelest way. AH/Slash


**A/N: Recognisable characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended.**

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**Concrete Angel**

A shrill buzz fills the room, but silences the instant that my palm connects with the button. I've lain waiting for that sound for the past two hours, just to mute the din as quickly as it could begin. It's too early for her to be woken by the sound of my alarm clock, but it's the signal to tell me that another pointless day is beginning and that despite the futility of it, I must rise and face it anyway.

As I begin to lift myself from my bed, the white heat of pain flows through almost every inch of my body. An agonizing reminder of the usual events of the night before. From my head to my ankles, blood throbs achingly through my veins, beneath bruised and battered skin. I try not to look, as I know it will just be the same as before; purple and black decorating my body.

I hiss under my breath as I move, muffling the sound as I latch my teeth onto my fist, not wanting to wake the beast in the neighbouring room. It's only a short journey from my confines to the bathroom, but each step is cautious and as silent as possible. Each small creak of a floorboard threatening to be the beginning of the end.

When I reach the bathroom door and limp inside, I hold still for a couple of seconds and finally release my held breath, as I hear the steady rhythm of snores continue along the hallway. I've succeeded in reaching the bathroom without incident, but there is still the return journey.

The door remains ajar. I'm too afraid to risk closing it completely, as the click of the lock is often loud. The light stays turned off, the brightness too much for my aching head, too sensitive to my stinging eyes. It would only add to the clarification of my skin anyway, casting shadows upon old scars and illuminating the new.

I daren't make too much noise. I relieve myself painfully slowly into the toilet bowl, after covering the water level with paper, trying to muffle the sound even a small amount. I'm afraid to flush afterwards, knowing the rush of water through the pipes would make the beast stir; I leave that task for last.

Reluctantly lifting my gaze to the mirror above the sink, I see as usual that my face has been avoided, so as not to draw instant attention to what has happened. I'm dirty though, in need of a wash or a proper bath, but again with the noise that would cause. I'm confident enough to turn the tap on to produce the smallest of trickles, enough to dampen my toothbrush, giving my teeth a half-hearted clean; there's no toothpaste to aid in this.

With nothing more I can do for myself, I pull the door open slowly to avoid it creaking, then flush the toilet as I beat a hasty retreat from the small room. The sound of water rushing is almost deafening to my ears, shattering the silence in the house. As I creep to my room, the snores hitch for a couple of seconds, then return just as loud; I'm lucky this time.

Back in my confined area, I see the destruction of the night before. Books are strewn across the floor, papers joining them that have been cast off my small desk. The table lamp is on its side, the bulb still lit as I hadn't the strength or willpower to turn it off. I do so now, as I attempt to recreate the bedroom that had once been within these four walls. It should have been my room, my go-to place, my sanctuary, but it had fast become just another place where I could not hide.

For half an hour, I try to reassemble the broken pieces of my few belongings. There's glass smashed upon the floor, the remains of the only framed picture that had graced my bedside table; the image of my father. Picking it up, I study it carefully, as though I hadn't already had it memorised. He stands proud, saluting me, in his red and navy uniform. The medals on his chest glisten in the flash of the camera that captured his image. The medals that now remain in darkness, with him; underground.

The glass is gone, now residing in my wastebasket near the desk, but the image will return to its rightful place, watching over me as I attempt to sleep at night. He'd been a brave man, through bomb blasts and gunfire and now I aim to be brave too, through screams and loneliness.

With everything almost back to how it had been hours before, I've nothing left to do than to prepare for my monotonous day. A hand through my hair is as good as any comb for now, also acting as an iron to brush out the wrinkles of my clothes. They're dirty, smelling, but so are all the others and despite having lay in them all night, they'll have to suffice.

Again, my footsteps are as silent as possible as I pass that room, aiming for the stairs and my small freedom from home, even if it is just school. My meagre lunch will have to consist of the usual: slightly stale bread, no margarine, the remaining dregs from the bottom of a random jelly jar; today's lucky dip-blackberry.

I take to this task as I do any other, as silently as possible. The last few slices of bread are returned to the refrigerator, trying to keep what little life is left in them. There's decent enough food on the shelves, and what space isn't taken up by food is occupied by chilled bottles of vodka, but I know well enough not to lay a finger upon any of it. I learned that lesson a while back; she has her food, I have my scraps.

With the measly lunch packed into a brown paper bag, fluffed with thin air to give the illusion of fullness, I make my escape from my prison and step out into the mild, autumnal atmosphere. The sidewalks are lined with crisp, brown leaves and the clear sky threatens a chilly night to come.

It's still early in the morning, with very few people on the street. The silence causes my ears to ache, as my body throbs with the tiniest of movements I make. Each step is painful, but I hold my head high and hide behind the walls that I have erected long ago. To everyone on the outside, I'm just a teenager with messy hair, dirty clothes and a constant vacant expression.

They don't know the extent of the things that I hide.

The mailman passes me by without a second glance. The paperboy pretends to aim his bicycle at me, then swerves at the last moment, playing chicken with a brick wall since I would have stood my ground. Across the street, my neighbour, Mrs Jefferson, begins to wash her windows. She may be elderly and slightly frail, but no amount of window washing will clean the glass enough for her to see me. I've seen her before and despite the age, I know she has heard sounds in the night; noises that she closes those windows to, securing the drapes across to ignore what is happening.

The pained slowness of my steps means that by the time I reach school, students have arrived and are filtering into the stone building. Many see the walls as their own confines, a detention centre where they must spend several hours a day. I see it as freedom from my prison, my own personal hell. I don't like school for the lessons, more so the ignorance of people within them. Here, I am ignored and though that further adds to the loneliness, it is also bliss.

Climbing the stone steps takes a little longer than usual. Each step sending excruciating pain through my body, hindering me the whole way and yet the mask doesn't falter in the slightest. Within the building, students pass me by, jostling me in the squeeze of the tightly packed hallways and inflaming the wounds in the process, but still they do not know.

The mask is my alibi, my safety feature against their knowledge and they call it ignorance, rudeness and insolence. They don't realise that it is them who are these things, as they fail to see me.

Despite my issues, those within my soul and within my home, I'm still a hard worker at school. I sit in every one of my classes, taking in the information, if only to act as a distraction for my mind. It's better to daydream about characters in a book, than to dream a waking nightmare of reality.

My teacher thinks that I'm highly attentive, willing to learn as I keep my focus upon her every word, but I'm really many miles deep within my soul, hiding behind my constructed defences.

The room is warm, the autumn sun burning through the windows and I'm forced to remove my jacket. My shirt beneath is a short sleeve and try as I might, I'm unable to get the sleeves to stretch far enough down my arms to hide my shame. It's hard to do so, without drawing attention to myself, so I have to force myself to sit still; acting oblivious to it.

As I distract myself with the written words of Charlotte Bronte, the teacher walks between the rows of desks, as she reads from the book. Her words falter as she passes me by, her head turning to gaze down upon my arms. I know she has seen the bruises there, the perfect fingerprints pressed upon my skin, like ink prints on paper. Maybe she will say something, do something; save me, even.

Her head turns, her steps and voice continuing, hardly skipping a beat.

The whole time my mask remains in place. I didn't even bother to give myself the faintest glimpse of false hope, only for it to be dashed like many times before.

Lunch is the usual affair, finding a spot out on the benches alone. I eat my small meal with gratitude for what little I have, as I have also known nothing at all. I have the bench to myself, no one else daring to come near me. They sit in their groups of friends, sharing candy bars, potato chips and cakes. As much as my stomach hurts and craves, I remain content with my lot.

The boys play soccer on the grass, kicking a ball to each other and jostling their friends to the ground as they play. I used to be one of them when I was younger. I've aged and matured with all of these boys, but the further our ages grow, the wider the distance also becomes.

They know there's something not right about me.

Like everyone else, they don't bother to ask.

They distance themselves from the freak.

If any of them did bother to ask, then they would likely run a mile. The weight of my troubles may have been locked away deep inside of me, but they would swamp anyone who attempted to shoulder even a small amount.

I consider myself to only have one friend. That is what makes me a freak, because my one friend isn't even real. He comes from the depths of my imagination and what's more, he doesn't even have a name yet; I've not found the perfect one for him.

As I watch the boys playing soccer, it's then that he appears to me. He is amongst the boys at first, but his eyes meet mine and he crosses the grass to take a seat beside me. I manage the smallest of smiles, reserved only for him and his own smile is his response. We don't have to talk, we never have before and I find myself wondering what he would even sound like, because I have yet to think of the perfect voice for him.

I only know that he would be just like me.

Gay.

I have created him from my imagination, making him perfect in my own eyes for what I would want in a friend, as well as a companion. I painted him with the colours of my mind. Copper hair to match the autumn leaves, as unruly as my own. Eyes as green as the grass beneath our feet. Lips perfectly carved and longing to be kissed, but unable to, since he is just a figment of my imagination.

The way he looks at me is always the same. Understanding is forever written in his eyes, as though he has been through what I am experiencing and knows how I feel about it all. He sees what I endure from day to day, doesn't judge me like others and certainly doesn't ignore me. Though he has never spoken, I feel as though he has said to me many times: 'It's going to be ok.'

Whereas other people don't ask for an explanation, with him, I don't have to give one, even if he could and would ask. I feel as though he is there all the time, invisible sometimes, but always watching. I like to think that my father is too, what he might say if he were to sit beside me now. Would he say that it will all be ok, or would he say that I deserve it, like my mother's well used excuse?

I feel as though I can tell my creation anything and everything. It's meek at first, the voice with which I speak to him, but his smile widens at the sound and I know that he won't judge me; I didn't create him to be a judge, but a confidant and a friend.

I speak quietly, trying not to move my lips too much, in case others see me speaking to myself and it further adds to the illusion of me being a freak. I know that he has seen and heard, but he doesn't know the reasoning behind it all. So I open up to him completely, knowing that he is all the sanity I have left in the world. Ironic really, my only sanity being the creation of my mind-something not even real.

I tell him that it's been going on for the past two years.

I tell him the same lie that I've told myself for all of that time.

It's not her fault.

His smile falters, he doesn't believe me and I can't blame him at all. I want to believe my own words, but they taste bitter in my own mouth.

I tell him that it began after my father was killed. He'd been serving overseas in the war and he was one of the unlucky ones to come home in a box to tears, instead of on his own feet to hugs. His death had turned our family of three into two, devastating us both, but my mother even more so. She'd had some kind of a mental breakdown and hasn't been the same since.

How can I blame her for that?

I confide in him about how she had taken to the bottle. She'd emptied my fathers liquor cabinet of all the spirits within the first week, following his funeral. When none had remained, her grief increased and bills began to be skipped, so that the money was spent on more whiskey and vodka.

I tell him how the violence had first occurred.

I'd come home from school to find her in a heap on the living room floor, with an empty bottle beside her. She'd not washed herself for days and the stench of alcohol permeated the air. My instinct was to try to help her, but she'd just cried and pushed me away, exclaiming that I wasn't even half the man my father was; that she wanted him, instead of me.

The words had stung, but I'd continued to try and gather her from the floor, if only to manoeuvre her to the couch. She had screamed out as her hand connected with my face, the impact of her strike causing my lip to split, where it crushed between my teeth and her knuckles. She'd silenced instantly, realising through the drunkenness what she had done and she was very apologetic. Despite her repentant words, that had been the first stone and it had deteriorated from there.

For the first year, we stumbled over the invisible stepping stones, as she led the way across the river of our lives. Ahead was a waterfall that I knew we were heading for, with raging waters below that would suck us into the depths of depression, pinning us under the weight until the last air left our lungs. The day that she had stormed into my room, demanding I go to the store for more alcohol despite knowing I wouldn't get served, was the day that I gave her the final push; tumbling us over said waterfall.

She had walked in on me jerking off to a picture of a man.

She discovered I was gay and that gave her more reason to spit those words at me.

The words that had always stung the most, far more painful than her feet and fists. Far more painful than 'faggot', 'homo' and 'pervert'.

The words: 'I wish you'd never been born'.

I mirror those hateful words with my own, wishing that I had never been born. With sympathy in his eyes, my creation reaches a hand towards me, longing to touch me and to pull me into his safe arms, to give me comfort. Those emerald eyes show so much understanding and love that I yearn to feel, but can't. Silently, his eyes tell me that it's going to be ok, but I find it hard to believe.

The rest of the day passes far too quickly for my liking. Whereas the other students run through the hallways to leave school as fast as possible, I attempt to move at a snail's pace, knowing it can only last so long; and he matches me step for step.

My prison stands before me once again. Externally, it looks like a pleasant home, in a nice part of town, but within tells a different story, one that people are happy to ignore. The white washed walls and fences may give a pure and innocent image, but the walls within are red and black; my own torment.

It's with a usual trembling hand that I turn the handle and step inside, closing the door as quietly behind me as I can. The smell is in the air, thick like smoke to an asthmatic. It's just like every day since my father has been gone, coming home to the stench of alcohol and the silence that can only mean that she is passed out somewhere.

A peek into the lounge shows that she is slumped on the couch, a half emptied bottle of whiskey has fallen from her limp hand, spilling her vital fluid into the carpet. I know she will be infuriated when she realises, but I'm too terrified to try and hide the evidence; too afraid to even enter the same room as her.

My semi-sanctuary is the best option, though I know it won't last and I don't know how long it will be before she wakes again, to dose up on her alcoholic drug.

It's with quiet, but heavy feet, that I escape to my room. It's as I had left it this morning, as neat as I attempt to keep it, despite how damaged it had been left the last time she had thrown me around the interior. The solitude in school has done nothing to ease the pain in my body, my heart and my soul and these walls offer little relief anymore.

My constructed walls have to stay strong and my mask in place, meaning I need to keep as normal in the eyes of others that I can. After closing my door quietly, I retreat to the desk in the corner to work on my homework. It'll be a distraction to my mind, one that I am always happy to have, to disappear into my studies and the characters that come with it.

It's whilst penning down my English Literature assignment that the epiphany strikes me. Glancing across my room, I see him there, sitting on my bed. His eyes are on me, his perfect lips forming a smile as our gazes meet. I'd been mentally lost in the world of Jane Eyre, when the seamless name for my flawless creation had struck me.

Edward.

I don't know why, but he just seems like an Edward to me. It was whilst writing down the name of Edward Rochester, that the thought had hit me. He wasn't anything like Edward Rochester, but there was just something about the name.

With my attention fully diverted from my homework, I slowly stand and cross the room to him. I know he's not real, that we can't touch, can't kiss, can't make love; but I can't be blamed for trying.

Standing in front of him, my hand raises in an attempt to cup his cheek, but there's nothing there and I know that I'm likely going insane, but I really didn't give a damn anymore. Moving around him, I sit on the edge of my bed, leaning back to rest on one elbow, as I keep my eyes on his.

His gaze rakes appreciatively over me, but I know that if he could see beneath my clothes, I may very well revolt him with the sight. I can't even bear to lift my shirt and take a peek for myself.

Before I'm even aware of what I'm doing, my jeans are unbuttoned, releasing the pressure that had been forming. I keep my eyes locked to his, only ever wanting to see that approving look in his eyes, as they drop to watch my hand palming myself through my briefs.

I'm hard just at the sight of him so near to me, as if like a ghost, since he isn't truly there. He tilts his head, saying with his eyes that he wants me to do more, so he can watch me. I tease myself at first, in order to tease him, but it's not long before I am too wound up to wait any longer.

Dipping my hand into my briefs, I guide myself out and give a hearty stroke, my foreskin fully retracted with my arousal. I can smell myself on the air, a much more pleasant musk than the scent of liquor that permeates every inch of the house.

My heart races within my chest as I pump myself with force, my fist wrapped tightly around my length, swiping over the head with each pass. I know I won't last, as I can feel the white heat already beginning to swell within me. My breath leaves me in short, sharp pants, and it's with the gasp of his new name that I christen him, as my body releases in warm spurts into my hand.

The look of approval in his eyes has deepened, now joined with content, as though he had felt the pleasure with me and was coming down from his own high. Wiping my hand clean on my already soiled shirt, I slip myself back into my briefs and lay sprawled across my bed, sated and exhausted, having not slept well the night before. I was still in pain now, but the numbing pleasure was helping, as well as having Edward sitting beside me.

But just like my virginal ministrations and the resulting pleasure, my peace, safety and solitude could not last.

It was his expression that alerted me first. For twenty minutes I had just lay staring at him, our eyes never once leaving each others. When his gaze quickly turned to the door, I knew something must have been wrong. It was a couple of seconds later that I heard her approaching footsteps on the stairs.

Like many times before, I hoped that she, by some miracle, would bypass my room completely and go to her own, or to the bathroom.

There was no such luck.

She was in my room in the same second that I had struggled to my feet, backing myself into the furthest corner from her. The usual fury was in her eyes and I began my mantra in my head.

It's not her fault.

It's not her fault.

It's not her fault.

My only friend-my invisible friend-remained at my side throughout it all, as he had done so many times. My screams even deafened me, but they were ignored by everyone as usual; especially my mother.

Her words stung as much as the blows, but I continued my mental chanting, not blaming her because it wasn't her fault.

It was my fault.

xXx

A light drizzle fell, but I ignored it, not allowing it to hinder me in the slightest.

Around me was a sea of black, swirling before me as though a great storm was taking hold, and yet I could see so clearly for the very first time. Each face amongst the blackness was familiar to me, if not known by name.

Mrs Jefferson, the elderly neighbour.

My teacher from school.

Heck, even the mailman who had ignored me every morning for the past two years.

They were just three among the twenty or so people who were here, but I didn't understand why. They'd known in their own ways, but done nothing about it. Perhaps that was my own fault, since I stayed behind the walls I'd erected, the mask I'd placed upon myself to keep them at bay. I stood behind them, right at the back, mirroring them as I gazed down at what was before us.

It felt like a dream. As though this can't possibly be reality, but I know that it is. It's right there before me, clear as crystal, etched for eternity into polished stone.

Jasper Isaac Whitlock

January 9th 1987-October 21st 2004

I'd already blocked out the rest of the writing on the stone. The part where it said 'beloved son'. That wasn't something that I wanted to think about.

Around me, the faces seemed to weep, though many could be mistaken for the rain falling upon them. None wept more so than the concrete angel, laying across the top of the stone as she buried her tearful face in her hands, genuinely mourning for the loss.

The loss of me.

Diverting my gaze away from her, I saw him standing at the very front of the small gathering. He stood as though he was an angel himself, but not weeping like my concrete angel. Instead, he turned and walked towards me, directly through Mrs Jefferson; causing an involuntary shiver to run through her as she sobbed.

As he appeared before me, his perfect lips formed the smile that I had given him. I found myself drawn to mirroring it with my own. There was no pain now, no fear and yet he had remained with me as though he was no longer a figment of my imagination.

He stepped closer, offering his hand to me. I reluctantly moved my own, expecting it to pass through him as it had the few times I'd tried to make contact with him. The gasp from my throat when our hands connected, caused him to chuckle at my shock.

I could feel him. His hand. His skin. His warmth as his fingers curled around, securely taking my hand in his, as he stepped nearer. Lifting my eyes to his, he smiled once more and raised an eyebrow, but for once, I couldn't understand from his eyes what he wished to say; I'd still not given him a voice.

I'd never longed to hear him anymore than I did in that moment. My own voice a mere exhale as I instructed him to speak, my words taking on a pleading edge. He smiled, squeezing my hand and passing into me the feeling that I was safe now, no harm could reach me again and I was loved.

As his lips parted, the anticipation within me grew, to finally hear my personal angel speak. I considered him to be just that; my angel. He'd stood by me all the time, when I needed to see him the most. He'd gotten me through it all and had met me at the end.

I watch as his tongue peeks out, lightly tracing over his lips to moisten them. The apple of his throat bobbed once, twice, then once more as though the feeling of being able to speak was completely new to him. I suppose in a way it was, it took a second or two, before he attempted it, with another squeeze of my hand.

"It's all going to be ok, Jasper."

His voice was unlike anything I could have created for him. I didn't even have the words to describe it…other than…perfection. Everything about him: his hair, his eyes, his body and now his voice; it was simply perfection.

"Edward?…"

He smiled as I spoke my chosen name for him, giving the faintest of nods in answer to a question, that I didn't even know how to finish. He turned, increasing his grip on my hand and began to walk me away from the gathering. Away from my grave and my weeping concrete angel.

"Where are we going, Edward?"

His head turned enough for our eyes to meet, his thumb stroking lightly across the knuckles of the hand he held, as the smile graced his lips.

"We're going home."


End file.
